Delirium
by strawberryfinn
Summary: Peeta has loved Katniss a long time. In his feverish state in the cave, he tells her just how much.  during The Hunger Games, pre-Catching Fire


**Author's Note**: Hi everyone! I just finished reading _The Hunger Games_, (so part 1 of the series) yesterday and I couldn't get Peeta and Katniss out of my mind. I've started _Catching Fire_ but I have quite a ways to go before I finish the series. Oh my lord though, the books are amazing and raw and beautiful in every way, and I thought I'd contribute this little story.

But because I haven't finished reading the series, I'm sorry if anything is inconsistent. I've only finished the first one and I may mix up the Gamekeepers and the Capitol and everything and I don't know if Peeta will reveal any more of his hidden love for Katniss or if this is in the right chronological order so please forgive me if I'm wrong.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Peeta Mallark or Katniss Everdeen or the Hunger Games or Gale Hawthorne or any of the characters. They are all property of the incredible Suzanne Collins.

**Pairings**: Peeta Mallark/Katniss Everdeen

**Rating**: K+

**Genre**: Romance/Hurt/Comfort

**Summary**: Peeta has loved Katniss a long time. In his feverish state in the cave, he tells her everything. (during The Hunger Games, pre-Catching Fire)

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><p><strong>delirium<strong>

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><p>I can't tell what time of day it is when Peeta starts mumbling.<p>

Outside of the cave, the weather is frigid. I'm sure that if I were to venture outside of this cave at this point, my breath would be visible in bright puffs in the air and my eyelashes would feel as though they're freezing together. The entrance of the cave shows a dark, almost slate grey sky and if I didn't know better, I'd think I was back in Panem during the winter, searching for the hint of dandelion greens underneath the snow. It reminds me of the summer Prim and my mother—and _I—_almost died, and would have, had it not been for Peeta. The colors mist together and I can't tell if it's morning or night or somewhere in between. It could be the afternoon for all I know as the Gamekeepers keep changing the weather to make it more and more difficult for us, slowly sucking the will to live out of us.

Peeta's words are jumbled like the way the mockingbirds sound when they're trying to relay too many melodies, discordant and unpleasant to my ears. His eyes are wide and open but the slide in and out of focus and even though I can see his deep blue irises even in the dark where I am sitting in the dark, I know he can't see anything. I place my hand on his red forehead and nearly jerk back at the touch. His skin is blazing, scorching hot and I am reminded of the way the fireballs felt when they hit my calf.

"Peeta," I whisper, even though I don't think there's anyone there to hear. I hate that the cameras must be honing in right now, capturing the unedited, genuine concern and fear on my face. I don't want Peeta to die. I can't have him die. Not when they've just changed the rules and both of us can be victors—the winners District 12 hasn't had in so many years.

Peeta's voice is almost hysterical—high and giddy like one of those ditzy, make-up covered girls in the Capitol. His condition is almost dire, and he trembles now, his teeth chattering even though his body is on fire.

"Katniss?" he asks, his voice sounding slurred. His speech triggers an image of Haycinth, flask of spirits in hand, struggling to keep his voice steady and failing miserably. I shake the picture out of my mind with a shudder, and try instead to focus on the feverish boy with the bread in front of me. "Katniss, I—I have to tell you something in case-"

"Peeta, you're not going to die," I interrupt resolutely, and I mean it. I have meant it every time I've said it because I will swear my life on it—I am not going to let Peeta Mallark die. I cannot owe him anymore than I already do. I cannot have another death on my conscience, even though I know this is the nature of the Hunger Games. To slowly destroy your humanity.

"Katniss," Peeta mutters stubbornly, as if demanding for me to listen to him. The fever is raging on and so is he, growing more and more wild and insistent. I am grateful at least, that he is not belligerent. "Katniss,_ listen to me_."

"I am," I tell him, slipping him a sip of water. He drinks deeply, and falls back, his eyes glazed and breathing labored. His fingers shake in anxiety or fever or both, I can't tell.

"Katniss, I've loved you a long time." Peeta's breaths are hitched and I can feel the heat radiating off of his body.

"You have?" I reply, my voice a breathy wisp—like Rue—elusive and slight and barely audible above his. I don't even know if I'm playing along for the audience anymore, and I am struck with a blind anger suddenly at the fact that the public is intruding on this moment. Peeta is in danger of dying, in spite of all of my efforts, and I want to be with him and have him be honest with me. I want so much for a moment of privacy, but I know I won't get it in the arena.

"The way you sang that valley song," Peeta barrages on deliriously, "in your red dress and your braids. You were captivating—your voice made everything stop."

Something dangerous flutters up inside my chest and I feel the blush flaming on my cheeks.

"That's not all though," Peeta continues. "That's not even the start of it. I," he closes his eyes as though he's thinking hard and doesn't open them again. I know he's not asleep, but trying to rest and regain his rationed energy.

"It's okay, Peeta." The words unglue themselves from my throat, soft and gentle. I stroke his wet waves of blonde hair off his face. Droplets of sweat bead on his forehead, and he shudders into my touch.

"Ev-every time my dad would bring in a squirrel or a rabbit you killed," Peeta whispers, "I was so in awe of your talent. And the way you raised your hand in class, so straight like an arrow, so self-assured. I... I always wanted that confidence.

"I was afraid to tell you." The words bubble out of Peeta now, like a wave that can't stop. "I loved you so much from afar. But you were always with him—the boy with the dark hair and the grey eyes from the Seam." He pauses, and I know he's talking about Gale. Gale pops into my mind, but he seems so wrong there, combined with Peeta. I fight to get his picture and his lofty smile out of my head and try to force myself to focus on the boy with the bread instead. The boy with the bread with his sandy hair in contrast to Gale's dark hair, the boy with the blue eyes instead of Gale's slate grey ones. "I saw him with you and was so _envious_ of the natural ease you had with him, the way he stroked your hair out of your face. I knew I'd never have a chance with you with him around, and so I'm lucky in a way my name was chosen in the Reaping."

"Don't say that," I say, choking my words. Hot tears sting the edges of my eyes but I can't let them fall. I can't be weak; sponsors wants a strong, resilient Katniss Everdeen who will be rational enough to save not only her life but also the one of the other tribute from District 12. Or maybe they want a vulnerable, enamored, lovesick girl—I don't know anymore and I almost don't care.

Peeta's breath rattles hard in his throat. "I had to save you. I love you so much, Katniss Everdeen."

It's the first time those three words have been uttered directly in this whole competition. Throughout training, the interviews, the arena, and they strike me as odd. Powerful. The only person I've ever known I love without a doubt is Prim, and here is this baker's son with his kind face and frenzied mind and he says that he loves me.

Peeta's hand reaches up now, brushing the side of my cheek. His fingers are burning with fever and his voice is delirious, but he finishes what he has to say in spite of my commands to tell him to rest. "So Katniss, I might die tonight, but at least when I do, I'll be with you." His hand drops after skirting the edge of my cheek and hits the cave floor with a soft thud.

Peeta's voice is weary and exhausted, like that of an old man. "Katniss, I've loved you a long time."

Peeta's hand searches for mine like a question, and I immediately link my fingers into his in an answer. With a small whimper, he fades into oblivion, leaving me in my thoughts, only Peeta's shallow breaths to keep me company. At least he is still breathing. His confession seems to have taken a lot out of him.

I'm not sure what's going to happen. I know people are watching in the Capitol and everyone everywhere, especially in District 12 are holding onto every word. Some of them must be repeating Peeta's words in their minds, mouthing them out, squealing in delight in pain in pleasure, I don't know. I don't know when the Gamekeepers are going to throw another obstacle at us—I'm guessing anything from lightning to noxious gas that cuts off my breath and makes it hard to breathe and impossible for us to survive.

I don't know if Peeta knows what he's saying, if maybe he's just acting. Acting along with the star-crossed lovers charade in hopes that some sympathetic and wealthy audience members from back home will sponsor him and send him much-needed medication.

I don't know if there is a single honest word in Peeta's confession.

But for a second, I let myself believe that Peeta Mallark has loved me for a long time.

And I start to think it may have taken me so much longer, but that I might love him too.

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I think I may very well be in love with Peeta. Screw the fact that he's fictional-hope you enjoyed; would love any feedback c:


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